Bartók Violin Concerto Number 2
by Achos Laazov
Summary: All any son wants is to feel like he's loved by his father. Maybe it's easier to lie to the world than to be honest with yourself.
1. spring

You don't bother going to look for your father before the spring recital. You know his schedule. The entire United States knows his schedule, and he has a cabinet meeting tonight. The audience waiting for you and your classmates to perform would be buzzing if the President of the United States showed up at his son's college music recital instead of going to a scheduled Cabinet meeting. It's not like you're speaking these days anyway. There's too much water under that bridge, and it's only gotten worse the past couple of years.

Before taking your place on stage, front and center beside the stand holding the sheet music, you allow your heart to hope a tiny bit. Before raising the violin to your chin, you allow your eyes to sweep the room one last time. No Secret Service detail, no hushed murmurs and pointing. No President. Dad didn't show, and before you start to play, your heart has fallen again.

Months later, your body dressed in black and mind shrouded in shock, you wonder if your dad regretted your mutual distance the past few years as much as you do now. You'll never be able to hear his voice again, even raised in anger as you fight. You'll keep dialing his phone, but now you won't have to hang up in shame and stubborn pride. Did you love me, you think over the coffin containing Dad's bent and broken body, as much as I secretly loved you?

Later that day, you're in the Oval again, surprised at how much it hurts to see someone else in Dad's desk, in Dad's chair, with Dad's title. And then the new President begins to tell you about old Cabinet meetings, about baseball caps and a father's pride. No, your heart stutters, don't tell me that. I can't handle the burden of his love right now.

President Kirkman hands you a program from the spring recital where you played Violin Concerto Number 2.  
And then you finally grieve.


	2. sunset clause

"White House, Office of the First Lady. How may I help you?"

"Is the First Lady available?"

Startled pause. "We can't just put anyone through to her. Who is this, exactly?"

"Ty- Tyler Richmond."

There's a long moment of quiet at the other end, and then, "I will have someone check if the First Lady can come to the phone. Please, hold the line."

You idly drum your fingers on the table in the rhythm of the latest song you're working on, waiting. After a moment, the line picks up again and an unfamiliar voice cautiously says, "Tyler?"

That's not Mom. Your fingers freeze, your hand covers your mouth, your eyes closing to keep tears from leaking out. Can't call Mom at the White House anymore. Can't call her anywhere, anymore. "I'm sorry, I forg- I don't know what I was thinking. I, um, I wa- wanted - was trying to talk to my mother. I'll just go..."

Your voice catches, and Mrs. Kirkman's voice _not Mom's_ gently apologizes, "Tyler, I'm so sorry. How are you holding up?"

She sounds like a mother, a mother you don't have anymore, and you shake your head even if she can't see you, not trusting your voice right now. Mrs. Kirkman tries again, "Do you need anything, Tyler?"

She waits patiently, silently, respectfully, while you regain control of your heart, your mind, and summon up an answer.

"No - um," and then in a rush, "It slipped my mind that she was gone." You leave out the part about the ache in your chest, the wound that bleeds grief, the hurt that comes along with losing both parents in the same night, with being doubly orphaned in the public eye.

A sympathetic noise comes over the line, and then a hesitant question, "What was your mom like? I mean, I've obviously met her at events, but -"

She pauses, searching for words, and you blurt out, "You're the first person to ask about her. People - the media - everyone's more interested in the President than my mother."

A startled, "Oh," and then the new First Lady is starting to sound less cautious, warming up to you, "Were you close with her?" and the emptiness in your chest, the loneliness you've felt since your parents died, begins to ease.

You tell Mrs. Kirkman about growing up as a child of politics, about falling in love with Mom's songs, about late night phone calls lasting for hours. You stop drifting through an abyss of darkness and grief; you cling to the light and warmth newly ignited by a different woman, someone else's mother, the new First Lady, one who cared enough to ask.

You end the call with a mutual promise to stay in touch. Your heart begins to knit back together.

You flip through the contacts in your phone, looking for the number you saved in a few weeks ago. Taking a deep breath, you surround yourself in the warmth that Mrs. Kirkman showed you, and dial the principal of Robert Richmond High School in New Orleans.

With the help of the new President, you can face the past and your father's legacy; with the help of his wife, you can look to the future and create your own. You're bereft of your parents, but you're not alone.


End file.
